


Click

by bilbo



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, M/M, My First Work in This Fandom, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Work In Progress
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-01-22
Updated: 2013-01-22
Packaged: 2017-11-26 11:20:18
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,015
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/649981
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bilbo/pseuds/bilbo
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>my first attempt at a sherlock fic so be gentle.<br/>what happens when john finds out that sherlock faked his own death? a year after the reichenbach fall, john is back where he started, a gun in his hand. a text from an unknown number might seal his fate once again.<br/>will eventually be multichaptered, with awkward human/sociopath sex.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Click

//Click//

It was difficult to tell the difference between the text message notification and the sound of the loaded semi-automatic handgun that John was now juggling between his fingers. There was no intermittent tremor, no shuddering, and of course it was a long time since his psychosomatic limp had left him. Yet something clung to him now as it had in those days before all that changed. The darkness was there. It was still there. And, given everything, it would always be there. The reason wasn't anymore. What had changed was gone.

Sherlock was dead.

Carefully he disengaged the safety on the gun with a soft click, which was once again chased with the same high, sharp sound from his mobile phone. It vibrated on the desk, reminding him that there might still be people out there who needed him, though at the moment the thought seemed completely absurd to him. What was there anymore?

Now stop that, John, his mind reprimanded him. You are not alone in this. There was, of course, Mrs. Hudson, and Molly, and certainly Greg. But ultimately, the one person that mattered the most wasn't there, and that was perhaps the hardest part. It was like the flashbacks to Afghanistan all over again, only this time he was seeing Sherlock's body as it tumbled down from the roof of St. Bart's to the pavement below.

No, actually, that was worse. Much worse.

A third vibration from the mobile finally called his attention down and he set the gun on the desktop, picking the phone up in his hand.

[BLOCKED NUMBER]

Likely Mycroft, he thought to himself as he unlocked the screen. Though, to be fair, if it was Mycroft he had a lot of nerve texting John at all, let alone after nearly a year of silence. His apology would never be enough. Not after what had happened. Not after Sherlock fell.

Shaking off that horrifying image, John glanced at the message and was surprised to see one word and one word alone on the screen.

[John]

Oh good, at least they know my name, he thought wryly before his brain had a chance to stop him. He looked at it a few more times before putting it back down on the desk. He didn't answer unknown numbers and certainly not now. What reason was there? He wasn't investigating anymore. Picking the gun up again, he held it without directing the barrel, simply looking down at the sleek blackness of the metal in sharp contrast to his pale skin.

He'd been here before.

The phone clicked again, its vibration against the wood harder this time, or perhaps it was the constant interruption that made it seem that much louder to him. Holding the gun in his left hand, he picked up the phone with his right.

[BLOCKED NUMBER]

[John]

He set the phone back down on the desk with a huff. Whoever seemed so bent on texting him wasn't particularly original, and with the many things he'd seen in his time living and working with Sherlock, there wasn't much that could hold his interest anymore. Not like that. Not like Sherlock. There was no one in the world quite like him.

There had been times where he'd really hated the other man. But underneath all his little idiosyncrasies, his Asperger’s, and his sociopathy there was a person that John had grown to love. Everyone else had seen it. But not him, not until it was too late.

Another click, another message. He clicked the safety back into place and put the gun in the top drawer of the desk before unlocking the phone again. It was the same blocked number as before, but at least this time there were more words to garner his interest.

[Meet me at the grave marked Sherlock Holmes. 1 hour.]

John didn't hesitate to throw his phone at the wall. A minor miracle (and the protective plastic case) was all that kept the phone from being destroyed. That was too much.

It seemed like a game to him. Like something Moriarty would have done to Sherlock, just for a laugh. But it wasn't funny, and he certainly wasn't amused. And especially not now. He didn't even want to think about what the world was like now that Sherlock wasn't in it.

He didn't want to be in a world without Sherlock.

But he was.

Exasperated, he finally got up and went to pick up his phone where it lay abandoned on the floor. It was unscathed. Pity. He wanted to disappear.

It didn't matter, at any rate. Whoever was texting him knew who he was, and clearly wanted his attention. Part of him didn't care who it was so long as there was something to end it. If it really was a game - a game like Moriarty liked to play - then whatever came would come. And he wouldn't have to force his remaining friends to endure his self-chosen end.

Ignoring the gun that moments ago had held so much of his attention, he pulled on his jacket and made his way out of his flat and into the hall, not bothering to lock the door behind him. It just didn't seem necessary since he'd moved out of 221b Baker Street. Jogging down the stairs, he made his way into the street and hailed the nearest cab he could.

The ride to the cemetery seemed just as long as the last time he'd gone there; the day he and Mrs. Hudson had wished their last farewells to their fallen friend. John could still remember the tearful goodbye and his final plea at the graveside;

// You... you told me once... that you weren't a hero. Umm... There were times I didn't even think you were human, but let me tell you this. You were the best man, the most human... human being that I've ever known and no one will ever convince me that you told me a lie, so... there. I was so alone... and I owe you so much. But please, there's just one more thing, one more miracle, Sherlock, for me, don't be... dead. Would you do that just for me? Just stop it. Stop this...//

He could feel the old tears welling up just as they had that day, but he was able to force them back. Ever the soldier, he knew how to control himself. Never let it show. Not until he was alone with a gun in his hand, sitting in the dark of an unwelcome flat.

The cab pulled to a stop and he waited for a few moments before finally getting out. This was the last place he wanted to be. He hadn’t been back since that day he said goodbye. He hadn’t been ready then and he never thought he’d entirely be ready. Was it really worth it? Whoever was texting him was playing a kind of game, but why fight it?

Paying the cabby, he got out and with hands in his pockets, he walked through the lush green of the cemetery until he came on the polished black headstone he had focused on immediately from the other side of the grounds.

Sherlock Holmes

He waited for a few moments by the headstone, just looking down at it and hardly stirring at any of the movement around him, though the cemetery was (for the most part) devoid of human life. But when no one approached him, he finally spoke aloud in a clear, if irritated voice, “You have my attention.”

His phone vibrated in his pocket. The same [BLOCKED NUMBER].

[John. I’m going to step out. Try your best not to get overly sentimental.]

He had all but read the text when a rustling came from the bushes and his heart stopped in his chest.

It was Sherlock.

John was too shocked to be able to force anything out of his mouth. Was he hallucinating? Had he finally lost it? But those eyes, that face, the same calculating expression…

“I wasn’t sure you would come, given the precautions. Blocked number, no known contact, that sort of thing.”

Still nothing. This wasn’t real.

“You seem to be taking this well. Though I should have expected as much, given your military experience, which is why I came to you before the others. I’m quite certain Mrs. Hudson will be surprised, unpleasantly so, but what can be expected – ”

“What.” John finally croaked out a word, though it was hardly the best articulation of what was running through his head.

“Ah, yes, shock. I assumed as much. Unfortunately I must apologize; I didn’t think it necessary to bring a blanket.”

“What?” John forced out this time, gaining a little more control of his faculties and allowing his eyes to lock on that face that had long been on his mind and yet he’d assumed lay under the dirt beneath their feet.

“Well I might have assumed that this would be difficult for you, given the simplicity of your mind compared to mine, but – ”

John didn’t even let him finish. Finally regaining control of himself, he hauled back and punch Sherlock squarely in the face; just below his cheekbone, avoiding as before his perfect teeth and his eyes. The taller male was taken down in surprise and grasped at the headstone as he came down from the force of the blow. Stopping to mop at the blood that already trickling out of his freshly broken skin, his clear blue eyes met John’s and for half a moment it seemed there was a glimmer of something more…emotional...behind them.

“I would have preferred sentiment.”

“You’re a right selfish bastard!”

“Not quite the reaction I expected…”

“What did you expect, Sherlock?!” John barked back at his friend, taking a step towards him. From his location now on the grass, Sherlock looked far less impressive than John remembered. And at the moment he had the upper hand. “Did you expect me to…just fall apart? Get sentimental because of my inferior little brain?”

“Well…” Sherlock held up his hands defensively as if anticipating John might hit him again, and John had half a mind to but restrained himself.

“What the hell were you thinking?!”

“I can see this news has upset you.”

“Good deductive reasoning there!” It took much of John’s self-control not to come unglued, so he turned his back to his friend and had to pace a bit near the grave to keep his emotions in check. “Don’t bother filling me in on how you deduced that. I think I’ve got it.”

“I’m sorry, John.”

“No.” He turned and looked back at Sherlock and the frustration, anger, and especially the pain was evident in his expression. “No, you can’t just come back from the dead like that and apologize, Sherlock. Do you have any idea…ANY idea…what we went through? What I went through? I watched you fall!”

“You saw what you needed to,” Sherlock answered in his ever-thoughtful, ever unenthused voice as he pulled himself to his feet with the help of the headstone.

“No one needed to see that, Sherlock!” John growled.

“You did.”

“No, I can’t.” And he turned to leave.

“John.”

“Piss off.”

“John.”

“I am…so angry…”

“John please.”

He was almost halfway across the green when Sherlock caught his arm, and John tried to pull out of it but was as ever half-hearted in the attempt. Just the sensation of the other man touching him, reinforcing the reality that he was alive, was more than enough to kill some of the fight inside him.

“I hate you, you know.”

“Do you recall when we were together in St Barts, when you got the call about Mrs. Hudson?” Sherlock asked softly, keeping as always an emotional distance from the shorter male, though their heads were now quite close.

“You mean on the day you didn’t die?” John snapped bitterly, not bothering to glance sideways at the face so close to his. He could feel Sherlock’s breath on his skin; more proof that he was real and this was not a dream.

“I told you I was alone. That alone protects me.”

“Yes I can see that. You’ve taken that to a bit of an extreme for the past year.”

“Do you remember what you said?”

John bit his tongue and kept his eyes forward, refusing to look the other man in the eyes. He was not about to give Sherlock the benefit of his attention, of any of this.

“I do,” Sherlock continued in his even, quiet tone, and he never released John’s arm from his grip. “You said ‘friends protect people.’” His voice stopped abruptly and when John was certain that was all he was going to say, he ventured a statement.

“So that’s what this was? You were protecting your friends?”

“I expected of everyone, you would understand.”

“Coming from the man who doesn’t have friends.”

“I recall admitting to having one.”

“You made us think you were dead!”

“There was no other way to ensure your safety. Moriarty had it all planned out.”

“I don’t want to hear it Sherlock,” John interrupted, holding a hand up to stop his friend and finally pulling out of his grip. “I don’t care what Moriarty said, or did. I care about what you did. To us.” Then, feebly he added under his breath, “To me.”

The pair of them stood there like that for a while in the cemetery, John wanting to leave and yet locked in place, and Sherlock unwilling to step away from him, instead his cool gaze ever watchful of the other man’s reaction.

Finally, barely above a whisper, Sherlock ventured, “he would have had you killed, John.”

“What, he would have had me killed if you didn’t kill yourself?” John snapped back, his voice far from sympathetic, though there was a twinge in his heart at the words his friend uttered. He knew he mattered to Sherlock, though it was rare that the other man showed it, alive or otherwise.

“Yes, you. And Mrs. Hudson. And Lestrade.”

Little burning flames of jealousy licked his heart at the added names. So it wasn’t just him. Though in the moment the feelings overtook him he realized how incredibly selfish it was, and he pushed it back, though the change did not go unmarked. “Sentiment is a chemical defect, Sherlock. I thought your superior mind had divorced itself from such weakness.”

“John,” Sherlock spoke again, a bit softer this time.

“No, I want to hear you say it.”

Perplexion riddled the taller’s expression. “Say what?”

“You know what.”

The silence felt like it lasted a lifetime for both of them, before Sherlock finally forced out, “John, I’m sorry.”

“You should be. Do you have any idea what you’ve done?”

“Yes.”

“No I don’t think you do,” John broke in without missing a beat. “You were dead Sherlock. I watched you fall. I saw your body on the pavement, and all that blood…” He had to stop because, despite being acclimated to violence, the scene still haunted him. “You were dead for a year. A year, Sherlock! Couldn’t you have, I don’t know, come out a bit sooner?”

“I needed to be sure.”

“Sure of what?”

“That you were safe.”

“Yes, well you were wrong,” John shot back quickly, trying not to let emotion get the best of him but failing miserably. “I don’t think you realize how much…what you did…” His voice trailed off without cause.

Like a whisper, his companion responded. “It hurt me too, John.”

John scoffed but said nothing.

“I know that I hurt you, John. But I did it to save you. Because I couldn’t bear the thought of losing the one friend I truly have.”

“You’re beginning to sound like one of us.”

“I mean it, John.” There was a layer of honesty in the otherwise unbroken voice that touched a deeper part of John that he didn’t want to acknowledge yet couldn’t deny no matter how much he wished it.

“Yes, alright.”

Sherlock took a step towards his old friend as if seeking approval. “Am I forgiven?”

“Yes, just don’t get all sentimental. It doesn’t suit you.”

The response pleased Sherlock, who clapped his hands together for a moment as if in thought, then he turned his piercing gaze on the shorter male. “I did miss you.”

John chuckled a bit to himself. “I said don’t get sentimental.”

“I’ve been keeping an eye on you,” he continued as if he hadn’t heard anything. “Would you have done it?”

John was flummoxed. “Done what?”

“What you were contemplating when I texted you.”

Once more the silence hung heavily on the air and it took a moment for John to catch himself enough to answer. “How could you possibly know about that?”

“When last we spoke, you said that I could.”

“Yes but that was something completely different Sherlock. This…have you been spying on me?”

“You haven’t answered my question. Would you or wouldn’t you have done it?”

John didn’t have to ponder his response and his eyes met Sherlock’s with a kind of subtle defiance. “Yes, I believe I would have.”

“Why?”

He bit his lip momentarily in thought. “I’d rather not say.”

“Sentiment?”

“Yes, Sherlock, sentiment.”

“Because of me?”

“Ever the humble consulting detective.”

“Was it because of me?”

“Yes!” John finally exclaimed. “Yes, it was because of you. Because…” His voice was caught up again and he dropped his gaze, unable to look at the other man as he admitted aloud what he already knew in his heart. “Because I…didn’t want to live…in a world…where there was no you.”

“That’s all I wanted to know,” Sherlock answered simply, and without giving John a moment to contemplate what was happening, he was swept up with Sherlock’s arm locked in his own, the taller man bringing him back to the road where the cab still idled patiently. Opening the door, he pushed John in first before following. “Take us home.”

“Which is?”

“221b. Baker street.”


End file.
